


Solar eclipse

by Kiseon



Category: Blood of Zeus (Cartoon)
Genre: ... and then gets an unwanted friend slash secret lover, AU after the great battle, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Seraphim does not go to the Underworld, Slow Burn, he lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27333283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiseon/pseuds/Kiseon
Summary: Apollo takes care of his horses. Seraphim watches from afar.What happens when the solar god gets tired of the demon king watching his horses but refusing to look athim?Seraphim gets himself a bright, persistent and annoying friend.Friend, they say and they will continue to say, even when the night sky hides their hushed voices and ardent kisses.
Relationships: Apollo/Seraphim (Blood of Zeus)
Comments: 66
Kudos: 145





	1. INTRO. Curious owl

**Author's Note:**

> I had to write this. I just had to.
> 
> Blood of Zeus AU in which Seraphim is not sent to the Underworld (yet) and is a prisoner in Olympus instead.
> 
> Featuring my brightest son, Apollo and the grumpy (but lovely) cat, Seraphim, who has an obvious love for animals and creatures.

Olympus has been quite tranquil after what transgressed a few days ago with the giants’ attack.

There are already endeavors to rebuild what has been destroyed, to heal who fell in battle and to continue onward, regardless of who is here and who is not. Everyone notices the absence of Zeus and Hera and nobody misses the chance to whisper all those unfinished questions nobody dares give a definite answer to: _what will happen now? Where is –? Will they—? How will we—?_

But in all Olympian fad, they do what they can, with what they have, until the final answer presents itself.

Everyone has been helping the way they can, in whatever they excel at. While Poseidon has manipulated the waters to carry and fortify the formerly fallen walls, Hephaestus and Kratos use their brute force and uncanny abilities to turn them into the strongest of barriers. _Stronger than before_ , they said. Eros, Momus and even Pan prowl around, rearranging flowers and plants, whispering sweet-nothings to the grass as if their voice alone could heal what has been crushed. Hermes does the usual, but in bulk, finding destroyed corpses and parts of them, both Olympians and demons, and ferrying their howling souls to the Underworld, where Hades, one of the Three, deals with them.

Many cooperate, some out of shame, others out of duty, but little by little, Olympus starts to looks pristine again.

Apollo? Apollo has been helping here and there, but almost everything using brute strength; carrying heavy blocks of marble from one side to another, or moving corpses aside, so the others can work better.

After the sixth day of reconstruction, Apollo heads over to the stables on the north side, grimed up but making a valiant attempt to wipe himself with a towel. His long hair is tied at the back of his head in an old-fashioned ponytail, but he runs the soft fabric over the lustrous locks, mourning the incoming shower and trying not to think too much about the maroon smudges on the towel when he is done. Blood? Dirt? Soot? A mix of everything?

_Well_.

But talking about beautiful messes: this is his favorite so far.

After Ares smashed against his chariot in that faithful moment of rage (and then threw him in the ocean, the big buffoon), his horses suffered a grandiose fall and they were no strangers to wounds afterward. Suffice to say, both of them breathe and that is all Apollo cares about. His chariot is long gone, but at least his horses are alright.

Just as he pushes open the double doors and puts foot in the stables, he spots the war butthead caressing Euros’ snout. The horse seems unbothered, but Apollo? Oh, he is ready to throw hands and slap Ares across the face for even thinking that petting his horses is alright.

“What are you doing here, Ares?” Yet, his voice is gentle and the smile, relaxed.

“What does it look like I am doing?” When Apollo does not answer nor approach, Ares visibly tenses up and returns his attention to the first horse, which is soon accompanied by the second, Boreas. “Apologizing.”

“Ah, so you apologize to my horses … but not to me. Incredible, dear brother. Real incredible. But now, I must request you to leave. I do have to get them out, give them a little sun. See, they are almost completely recovered.”

Ares remains silent, patting both horses; those calloused and rough hands tender against the beasts’ thick necks. Apollo has half a mind to speak up again, maybe engage in a so much needed conversation to smooth things out. Neither of them were right nor wrong, they were just following their hearts. After all, nobody expected Ares to turn his back against his mother, just as nobody did with Apollo, Artemis or Hermes when they decided to follow their father.

… but before he can open his mouth again, Ares is turning on his heels and storming out of the stables, leaving the horses looking after him as if he held the sun itself. Those hands must be magical, Apollo reckons.

“Good job, Apollo!” The solar god blares, kicking at one of the wooden doors as he makes big strides over to the box his horses are in. “Ah, I will fix that soon, my loves … how are you today? I see you are growing stronger.” Eurus and Boreas stand side by side, their big heads caging Apollo’s in a multiple nuzzle. “Yes, yes, I love you too … now, come on, dears, before the sun sets completely. I think you will enjoy how Olympus is looking.”

Horses and god exit the barn and enter the extensive terrains that surround a big body of water, grass so green, it contrasts beautifully with the setting sun and the purpling sky. A few Olympians walk about, chatting and laughing, getting ready to catch some much needed rest after another tiring day. But, overall, it looks deserted, probably because the north side is almost never visited – which is why Apollo likes it; his horses can run rampant without knocking over unaware wanderers, at least.

He lets Euros and Boreas be, running around like foals, while he takes a seat on a high rock. The ache he feels on the length of his legs is normal, even the one settling between his toes – but that does not mean he likes it. A grimace makes him straighten his spine when the simple movement of releasing his hair from the band brings him a slight discomfort. Ah, well. He will fix himself up soon, too. There are Olympians who suffered far worse under the giants’ attack, after all … he just almost got wing-swallowed by one. No big deal. He survived and that is what matters.

Time tics by, the sun starts to set and the flickering flames on the horses’ crests and forelocks begin to diminish into smaller, blue tongues of fire.

“Did you notice?” Apollo almost jumps out of his skin at the sudden voice. Hermes has cerulean, gorgeous eyes full of sympathy locked on him, but that does not make him stop talking. “So, did you?”

“Did I notice _what_ , dear brother of mine? How scarred I have become, yet how gorgeous I continue to be?”

Hermes arches an eyebrow, unimpressed by the solar god’s usual arrogance. “Not exactly, though I cannot fail to notice you look … dirty. Far from being the point, I meant _that_.”

Hermes nods towards a tall, dark and heavily protected building, just a few feet away from where Apollo sits on his rock. In days of time past, it had been used as a coliseum, where Hermes, Artemis, Perseus, Ares and Apollo spent vast amounts of time fighting and training together. Nowadays, the enormous place, barricaded by tall, sturdy walls and pillars, is protected by six automatons. Far from being what it used to be, the coliseum turned into a prison of sorts. Its current host is of no interest to Apollo, reason why Hermes’ words catch him a little by surprise.

“What about him?”

“He has been watching you from afar ever since you brought your horses out here.” Hermes’ voice indicates amusement. It is quite irritating, if a little endearing. “Or maybe the horses. Can’t really tell. However, I am certain it’s the horses he’s watching."

Apollo does not move, too tired for that, but golden gaze flits over to the night-darkened coliseum; while he cannot see much of what lies inside, the thick pillars and undulating arcs are enough to understand how Seraphim, Olympus’ most protected prisoner, is taking a peek at him. If he were on the demon king’s place, he would also stare at the beautiful man with the horses.

There is a light chuckle and a gentle swat of a sun-kissed hand. “Let him. He has been in there for more time than I care to count. The poor sod must be waiting his verdict with anxiousness. What am I to do? Deny him the pleasure of my glowing body?”

His bright smile is responded by an equally bright one, but before Hermes runs away again to gods’ know where, he approaches Apollo’s rock, lays a hand on the blond’s head and shares some of that unearthly warmth. The little brother acting like the big one.

“Just be careful, Apollo. Maybe go to the south gardens next time?” But Hermes does not stay to hear what his brother has to say.

After Apollo is cruelly abandoned by his lonesome self, he throws a look at the horses, now calmly grazing, unbothered, or nipping at each other and then back at the coliseum. _Ah_. But what is he to do, when his curiosity has been poked?

“Stay here, my dears. Your father has a little introduction to make.”

Euros and Boreas? They do not even pay him half a second of attention as he abandons the rock and makes way to the prison. Both of the gigantic automatons that guard the arc he walks through turn their heads, but otherwise, they remain still.

The inside of the prison looks way darker than the outside; that is the first thing he notices.

While the old arena receives the dim light of the moon already, the inside gets shadowed by the tall walls. Right in the middle is Seraphim, his body giving off a violet hue under the white rays of the moon. With Seraphim on his knees, Apollo can see those muscled arms stretched out to the sides, shackled and probably tied to adjacent pillars to render those hands of his useless. No matter if they already returned that bident to Hades, nobody is taking any chances.

All Apollo can see as his eyes adjust to the infinite darkness are the numerous lines running up and down the demon’s whole body, bright crimson, like rivulets of toxic blood, and those dual rings of light near the horned forehead, signaling Seraphim’s eyes locked on his every move.

“I see they brought you down to your knees already, hm? I thought that was a thing you did not like to do.” His opening line is not his best, but it coaxes a reaction from the demon, whose body tenses up before lips part to expose sharp, cute fangs. “Do not worry, I won’t tell anyone if you do not. I guess standing up all day must be tiring.”

There are no words, just a fierce stare.

Up close, Apollo has the advantageous height on him … but also the disadvantage of his pent-up frustration, which is not much of a frustration, but, maybe, a … _style_ of life.

_No, no, Apollo_ , he tells himself, _you only came here to satiate your curiosity, not your sexual needs_.

“What? No words? Guess you have always been the silent kind. I have seen you before, you know? Never too grandiose to catch my attention, at least not until you received this scar.” Up close, Apollo goes to his haunches in front of the shackled demon and once it is certain Seraphim won’t act up or try to bite his cute face off, the pads of index and middle hover an inch above the nasty scar that crosses vertically one of those red eyes. He does not touch, he does not make the attempt to, but he can see how Seraphim’s already tensed up body tenses even more. Like a bow string, perhaps, ready to release should it be given the chance. “I am sorry. For what Hera did to you. You were collateral damage in a lover’s quarrel, I am afraid.”

No words. Just the same stare.

Apollo sighs, cards long fingers through dirty locks of hair – and then pushes to his feet. No point in torturing this poor soul any further. Whatever punishment awaits for the demon king is far worse than his presence will ever be.

“If I were you, I would try different positions. Your knees will get worse if you stay like that for longer.” Those are his parting words.

He is already turning around, ready to exit right the way he came in … but then, he stops. He stops because there is a voice. Not gentle, nor angry, just a voice. A deep baritone, a little dry, a little small, yet confident. _Strong_.

A shiver runs down his spine, curling around each and every vertebrae until the solar god stops but turns his head, throwing a look at the kneeling demon over his shoulder.

“My … horses?” Lips begin tweaking into the smallest of grins. “You were _actually_ looking at my horses.”

“Yes.”

“Well, Hermes was right … you were looking at them.” His pained grin quickly gives way to laughter. Without pause, and ignoring the questioning look Seraphim gives him, Apollo continues walking out of the coliseum; before a metal giant blocks the arc again, he turns around, walks backwards, and waves a hand at the demon. “Tomorrow, look at me! I will look better tomorrow, I promise!”

Seraphim does not reply and Apollo leaves the arena … but engulfed in shadows and hidden from everyone but himself, Seraphim exhales, rolls his eyes – and feels lighter than he has felt in the past days. Apollo has been the only one to pay him a visit that does not involve screaming, tugging at his chains or throwing threats on his face.

However, if someone had told him that Apollo, the solar god, son of Zeus and pretty bastard would become his distraction and relief in the following days … he would have laughed. And then screamed into the void.


	2. ONE. Apollakis

– _**FIRST**_. He touches you and you light on fire. Your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin. The burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs. It’s so hard to breathe. You’re suffocating daily.

Days pass by in a rapturous blink. Olympus is great again; all high palaces, clear waters and bright sunsets. Little by little, what became debris and cracked marble stands erect once more, showcasing why Mount Olympus is a place for gods, of peace, not for Giants and wars. Some remember the second Giant attack with careful disdain, while others have simply decided to never speak a word about it again.

With less tasks to do, gods find themselves with time on their hands again.

For Apollo, it means more training sessions with Artemis and Hermes, delicious breakfasts and dinners too. There was even a big reunion two nights prior, where they all discussed the possibility of a big banquet to celebrate their victory and lives.

But that is just part of his daily routine; gods and gods and _more_ gods … however, when the night approaches fast and the sun starts to hide, the northern gardens are his favorite spot.

Coming the fifth day after the restoration of Mount Olympus, the solar god finds himself there, with Boreas and Eurus running wild from side to side. While the beautiful studs do _stud-business_ , he sits on the very same spot as always. Days before found him wearing his best robes and jewelry, but today, he only wears what is essential to cover modesty and nothing more, not even his usual cape, which wrapped around his shoulders and accompanied by a gold necklace highlights his (gorgeous) eyes.

Today, his strategy had to change. No more passive-aggressive. Just aggressive.

Reason why, sprawled on the high rock, long legs bare and stretched out, his body is strategically placed so the prisoner currently residing in the abandoned coliseum has an excellent view of what Apollo’s light clothing does _not_ hide. Yes. Today is the day. Today is the day Seraphim, king of the demons, looks at _him_. What is brighter, better looking and more appealing than Apollo himself, after all?

Exactly. Nothing. No one.

At least, not at the darkened and abandoned northern gardens.

Time keeps ticking by, until what remains of the sun is the brightness wafting off the moon. Both horses stand still a few feet away from him, already sated and happy. Yet – Apollo sees nor hears no results. There is not the faint clanking of chains, or the metal giants trying to keep the prisoner at bay. Nothing.

Ah, but the voice of reason does not take long to appear, just as he does each and every single night Apollo has been at the gardens. Plate helmet is tossed back, resting between Hermes’ shoulder blades, which is all Apollo sees before his brother turns around and looks at him.

“Do _not_ say it.”

“It is not working.” Hermes’ response comes as a careful whisper, but upon close inspection of a chiseled face, Apollo notices the ill-veiled amusement that makes his brother’s lips twitch. “He is not looking at you, Apollakis. It seems, to him, there is nothing worth watching but your horses.”

As his lips twist into a moue, he sits upright again, hands falling on the light layer of cloth that covers mid-way down his thighs. The pout? Totally meant for the hideous beast of a demon who refuses to fall for his charms, but falling petulantly on Hermes, whose face seems to light up when golden gaze finds him again.

“He really does not like me.” Comes the soft mutter. “I have given him my _everything_ , but I receive his _nothing_. How is that fair, brother? Does he not wish some … entertainment? A friend?”

Silence engulfs them both then. While Apollo tries, and fails, to express his immense sadness, Hermes looks back at him with sagacious, awaiting eyes. Ah, but Apollo is not dumb, he is just feeling specially attacked and offended by an irrational situation he has (apparently) no control over.

“Apollo.”

“Hermes.”

“ _Apollakis_ … you must try other methods. Maybe this is karma finally coming back to haunt you. You, whose feet are kissed by everyone who wishes to bed you. This time, he is not making it easy. You must try harder. Differently.”

What he feared: effort.

Well, not exactly the _effort_ part, just what will happen inevitably when Seraphim rejects his advances: failure.

Unable to maintain the eye contact with his sibling, Apollo looks back to the already cloud-shadowed coliseum walls and its metallic guardians. With Olympus restored to its original glory, there is no reason for him to come back here each and every single night; but there is something that calls him back here. A sense of purpose. Excitement. Something new. Whereas the demon is aware of the effect he has on him or not, Apollo does not care (a lot), he just knows Seraphim is, somehow, a new mission for him. Is he not, after all, the god of sun and light? Is he not meant to shed light to the ones that seek for it?

… maybe Seraphim is not searching for it, but he obviously needs it.

“Maybe my approach is all wrong.” His brother’s silence is grandiose – and it speaks volumes. “Alright, I am doing it all wrong. Maybe appealing to his sexual urges was wrong of me … but how do I do it right? The man does not even look at me, how am I going to get him to talk to me? Or tolerate my presence. I must be nothing but the son of someone who helped build his downfall.”

“Think.” That is all Hermes says before running away. Again.

_Bastard_.

He knows nobody will hand him the right answers in a silver platter, but a man is just searching anyway; here, begging for scraps and crumbs of –

“Crumbs.” Apollo leaps to his feet, so sudden even the horses jump with a start. “Crumbs!”

Minutes later, when Apollo runs up and down his palace, gathering several items and tucking them in a bag, chirping the same word over and over and over again ( _crumbs, crumbs, crumbs!_ ), nobody understands what the solar god is up to.

But, do they really want to know?

Only Hermes, sitting at the edge of a precarious tiled rooftop, looking back at him with an arched eyebrow, seems to understand what is going on. Oh, Apollo will show him – he will show Hermes what perseverance looks when Apollo wears it.

Once and again, he stops in his tracks, checks for the millionth time what he has in the bag and then goes back to running around like a headless chicken. This is a hassle, but it is the right answer to the puzzle. Had he thought better about it before, maybe a few days ago even, he might have understood sooner. This is not about what Apollo _wants_ , but what Seraphim _needs_.

And what does a prisoner need but the most basic of things?

Before abandoning the palace and running over to the coliseum again, he slings his cape over his shoulders and grabs a canister filled with clear and fresh water – but then, he is on his merry way.

No god, goddess, nor horse stops his frantic walk and, needless to say, Apollo pays no mind to the strange looks he receives as he goes, more than aware of them, but completely unbothered. As a god, it is his nature to deny any and every fault gods have – but sometimes, he can admit, gods are so self-centered, the rest of the world turns invisible to them.

But this is not the case.

He repeats himself the same thing, over and over again, as he stands in front of the metallic giants guarding the entrance of the coliseum.

Cape flutters with the wind and even if he dons some sandals, he can feel the cold of the night seeping into his every bone with every howl of air. He knows for a fact the interior space will be colder and it is that fact alone that goads him in. Finally.

Inside, everything is as dark as the last time he was here, but there is something new in the air. Something – so familiar, yet not expected. Acrid, metallic and not what Apollo wanted to smell upon getting here: blood. Dried blood or fresh, he is yet to see.

“Seraphim?” Apollo gives tentative steps towards the middle of the arena, where he can see light glinting off the immobile chains. He knows the demon king is still there, he has asked about him every chance he gets, but – which state is he in? “Seraphim?”

Just a few steps away from the limp lump of limbs, Apollo sets the bag down, followed by the cape, and approaches some more. The demon is not reacting. At all. The scent of blood is stronger then, pungent. He is afraid to move Seraphim, but steady hands reach out to cradle the indigo head and raise it.

This time, the gorgeous rings of Seraphim’s eyes are half-lidded, a little dim. Apollo can see dry traces of blood running down the man’s nose and chin. Even where he touches, there is certain dampness that indicates fresh blood, so the solar god deducts two things: Seraphim was beaten recently and he has been beaten before, ever since his last visit.

“Ah, my darling Seraphim, what have they done to you?”

At the sound of his voice, the demon king stirs, crimson gaze focusing on something, but then dropping again.

“You are way too weak … you need water. And food.” Carefully, he lets the demon’s head drop and without moving much, he is reaching for the canister. There is not much he can do with so little water, but Apollo goes for the healthier route and brings the canister close to Seraphim’s face. “Come on, help me here. I will keep it steady, you only need to drink.”

In an attempt to get away from the canister (and maybe from Apollo himself), Seraphim scoots back, growls in the faintest of ways and tosses his head aside.

“It is only water. I promise. I am – _come on_ , I won’t hurt you.” The attempt to make the demon drink happens again, but this time, Apollo places a tender finger beneath Seraphim’s chin, tilting his head up. “I would not waste a good canister to bring you venom or … whatever you think I brought you. Just take a few gulps, you will see.”

Still silent, defeated, the demon growls – but no sooner than his initial response happens, he is leaning forward to touch the rim of the metallic canister with his chapped and bloodied lips.

“That is it … a few more gulps. Eh, slower. Hey, slower.” With no more resistance, Apollo releases Seraphim’s chin, so he goes ahead and brushes locks of dirty silver hair out of the demon’s face. He offers as much water as he considers good for the poor thing’s stomach and then, slowly, he sets the canister back down. “I do not want you to puke it all out … so let’s go slow, yes? I will give you more before I go.”

Already rummaging through the contents of the bag, Apollo misses the moment Seraphim retakes the kneeling position, looking just a little bit better than when he came in.

“I packed some clean rags, so I will check your body for injuries. And I can clean your wounds, too. I brought a balm that is _magical_ on wounds. They won’t hurt anymore. Ah! I also brought some bread and cheese, which I assume is more than you have eaten and if you want mo –”

“Why?” The crooked voice interrupts him, but considering this is the second time he is hearing Seraphim speak, Apollo merely arches an eyebrow. “What is your plan, Apollo?”

“… you know my name.”

Despite the demon’s roll of eyes, the solar god is already grinning; lopsided, a little childish, but happy nonetheless.

He discards Seraphim’s question with a gentle swat of a hand. “I have no plans anymore. I have given up on them for the time being … right now, I just want to help you. Hey, wild question, can you sit down? I mean, put less pressure on your knees? A couple of minutes will do.”

Maybe the demon has questions about what Apollo requests, but wordlessly, he kicks his legs from beneath his body and lets them stretch out in front. There are a few cracks of tense tendons and a barely-audible hiss the demon tries to hide.

“Your knees are so damaged already.” The gentle mutter is directed at no one in particular. Losing no time, he starts to clean the bloodied callus that now covers muscled legs. “You did not hear me back then … but you should try different positions. You will – get hurt.” _More_. He means more.

Apollo schools his face into a countenance of stoicism, but deep down, he is boiling. The poor thing’s legs are mauled; to the touch, they are warm and slick with blood. No matter how much he tries to clean them, fresh blood is quick to taint beautifully dark skin again. Every time the cloth drags over the most sensitive spots, Seraphim flinches, over-stimulated already, so Apollo mutters an apology before dressing knees and part of Seraphim’s legs with bandages. At least they will help when the demon finds himself kneeling again.

“So, tell me … why my horses?” It is just a distraction, he tells himself. Something to make Seraphim not think about the multiple wounds Apollo keeps cleaning and dressing. “I assume you like animals.”

The answer takes a bit to arrive, to the point Apollo is starting to think Seraphim won’t answer. But, finally, there is another croak, such a deep voice turned a mere mutter.

“I’ve always been surrounded by animals.” The solar god knows what the demon means; he was no lying when he told Seraphim he has been watching him. The bears. The cerberus. The chimera. But he does not interrupt. He does not dare to. “… and it is not like I can see much from here.”

“You could see me.” He offers a tiny grin, which Seraphim scoffs at. “Alright, alright … my horses. Maybe, someday, I will introduce you to them. They are really friendly. Now, do not move, I am cleaning your hands and then –”

“Not my hands.”

“… no? But –”

“Not my hands.”

Apollo’s gaze flicks between the demon’s face and hands, back and forth a few times. He can see broken claws and dry blood caking around the demon’s fingers … maybe they hurt?

“Alright, not your hands … only your wrists for now.”

Leaving Seraphim sitting on the ground, Apollo stands up and goes to clean and dress those mangled wrists. The shackles do not let him do much, but he does his very best to remove the dried blood, then the fresh one that spurts out, and then wrap some cloth around the skin and beneath the biting metal.

“You must tell me your favorite food. I might be able to bring you some tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

The second wrist, the right one, proves to be trickier than the first one, maybe because Seraphim’s instinct upon being beaten is tug on his right side to try and move away – but all it seems to do is worsen the condition of his skin, musculature and even bones. What if it is broken? _Oh, Styx_. It might be broken, seeing how every time he touches it, Seraphim bites down on his lip.

“I am almost done, just hang on a second … yes, tomorrow! I need to change your bandages and you, my darling Seraphim, need some water and food.”

Legs, torso and wrists done, Apollo finds a spot to sit on in front of the demon again, cross legged; before anything else happens, he pushes his cloak towards Seraphim’s legs, coaxing the demon to lift himself up so he can slip it beneath. Those sharp eyes are yet to abandon him, but he supposes that is normal, considering what Seraphim has already gone through with other gods.

“I do not understand why you are doing this.”

Instead of answering immediately, Apollo lifts his shoulders in a shrug and reaches out with both hands to tuck wild locks of hair behind those adorably pointy ears. He had seen the demon king before, riding that powerful and beautiful chimera of his, but there is so much he did not see before that now he can. Were it not for all the blood and dark brown bruises, Seraphim would look just as regal as he did before. Dangerous. Deadly. Beautiful.

“Call it … my own greed, if you wish. I just needed to reach out to you. Do something for you.”

“I do not need your charity.” Seraphim snaps, baring those sharp teeth of his again. “For you gods, we are nothing but pieces you can move to your every whim. I am done moving to your will. So just tell me what you wan – _ngh_.” Apollo does not let him finish, running a clean piece of cloth over that dirty face and cleaning as much as he can.

“Just let me do this for you, yes? I do not have an ulterior motif. I just want to help you. Besides, who else will survive your snappy attitude, mm? Now, tell me the history of your chimera. I am sorry for its death —”

“ _His_ death.”

“Ah! His death, my apologies. Do tell me, then. Tell me everything about him.”

××××××

Come morning, Apollo sits at the table with fruits and meats in front of him. While he chews on some, he has started to set several pieces of everything on a square of cloth.

Artemis sits by his right, Hermes to his left.

“So … what exactly are you doing, Apollo?”

“Today?”

“No, my silly twin. With the food.”

“Eating it, of course.” He hears Hermes muffling his snort on a piece of apple, so Apollo elbows him, quite harshly, on the side. “But, if you must know, this is for my new friend.”

“… and his name is?”

“Seraphim.”

Artemis looks at him with wide eyes, while Hermes chuckles (and gags, the big bastard) by his side and, between bouts of laughter, he mutters: _friend? As if. Try conquest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sorry for this chapter. At all. I needed to write this because I love when love interests heal each other.
> 
> Now, I will be able to write fluff, more healing and sexual tension in the next chapters *evil laugh*
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> And thanks for the lovely people who left a comment in the first chapter (Berkeil, Keya1688, Starkillernoe, Tohma, amelia831. Origingirl).
> 
> PS: I rewrote chapter 1 a few days ago ... yoooou might want to take a look. Every detail counts. Believe me. But. There.


	3. TWO. Kissing is a two-people job

**–** **_SECOND._** It hurts to watch him. He shines. He’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes. It’s hard to look at him. It’s even harder to look away from him. You’re going blind.

A change of tactics also means a change of schedule, Apollo decides. After all, why would he visit his darling Seraphim _only_ when the sun sets? Too little time to be there. So little light, he has not been able to take a proper look at the demon’s body – and not for what people might think, which is his usual indecorous attitude, but he has been worried about those wounds ever since last night, when he took notice of them.

What if those wounds are deeper than they let on?

What if Seraphim is hiding his pain?

How can Apollo keep on living, knowing there is a suffering soul he can potentially aid?

Besides, no matter how much his natural glow encases them within the darkened walls of the coliseum, he has already seen Seraphim squinting in order to see him. So, this is killing two birds with one stone … well, three birds: he gets to see those wounds properly (and access them, if necessary), Seraphim won’t need to force his body for anything and, the best for last, they get to spend time together. Can’t think of something better.

Which is why Apollo’s so-called ‘tomorrow’ comes, just as he told the demon king.

A little before the evening meal, the solar god carries the same bag as before, this time filled with warm food and delicious wine. He also refills the canister with water, in case those wounds need cleansing. All in all, he is ready to tackle this bull. He’s got the right tools, the right hands and attitude to charm Seraphim this fine day. That man is going down! … his walls, _his walls_ are going down.

“Get your head out of the gutter, Apollo.” He mutters. A serious talk with himself, just as he steps past the guarding automatons and finally enters the arena, where the darling demon is.

With the sun high up in the sky, everything is clear as water. Memories are quick to overwhelm him, of this same arena filled to the brim with Olympians; hollering and cheering for their favored opponents. Apollo himself had ridden a lot of times within these walls, always with his golden and silver chariot, and Boreas and Euros. Flowers tossed at his feet, screams shaped up like his name – such former glory is long gone now, at least in this coliseum.

Now, the thick pillars that form a body of inner arcs are tangled, base to top, in green vegetation; this combined with the emptiness of the arena, makes the circular-shaped space cold as the Underworld itself. There are cracks everywhere he looks and if he focuses hard enough, he swears he can hear the faint pit-patter of creatures’ little paws scurrying off to their holes. No. This coliseum is nothing more than a prison now. It is quite sad.

Despite the unpleasantness of the environment (too hot, yet too humid), Apollo immediately beams when Seraphim raises his head to look at him.

There is a slight flash of confusion on crimson eyes, but it quickly morphs into (playful?) exasperation when the demon king takes notice of his sudden visitor.

To Apollo’s utter pleasure, it is Seraphim the one speaking up first this time around.

“You actually came.” Then, as if noticing the sunlight, Seraphim frowns, but whatever complaint he formulates gets swallowed down when there are more steps approaching from behind the solar god and a shadow that quickly closes the distance.

Seraphim is already tense, but Apollo remains calm and beaming.

“Of course I came!” As if no one were there but them, he sets the supplies down, chatting about the good weather and what a great day it is. Only when the other presence exits the shadows and enters their self-made bubble does Apollo address the other. “May I present you to my brother, Hephaestus? He was the one who built those pretty shackles you have got there.”

Seraphim’s head snaps towards the man, then back at him. Apollo wants to reassure him somehow, maybe even reach out to brush the pad of his finger across a purpling cheekbone, but before he can move a muscle, Hephaestus cracks a smile and tosses a set of keys to Apollo, whose agile hands catch them midair.

“Let him escape and you are dead, Apollo. Three hours. Tops.” And just as he came in, he goes out again, leaving Seraphim looking at his retreating back and Apollo grinning from ear to ear.

“He is all bark, but no bite. Pay him no mind.”

A little away from where Seraphim kneels, Apollo arranges his supplies on top of his cloak. For a couple of seconds, it seems he is ignoring the set of keys that hold the demon’s freedom – but eventually, playful gaze falls on the silent demon, whose lips are clamped shut in a tight line. There. That is what he wants to see: surprise.

“So, listen … I thought you could use some breathing time. At least while we eat.” He fiddles with the keys; not out of nerves, but maybe _excitement_. Approaching Seraphim is always a gamble, but this time his movements lack hesitation. First, he inserts the key on the right shackle, releasing the metallic contraption from the chains, which topple to the ground with a strenuous sound. Then, as he goes to work on the second, he takes a peek at the demon’s face. “Promise me you will not fight?” Key enters the slot, it turns. Seraphim looks back at him, without moving, seemingly without breathing … and then the chains fall down.

… and Seraphim leaps to his feet, tackling Apollo to the ground in a swift move of legs. _Of course_.

Apollo will give it to him, despite wearing heavy shackles around mangled wrists _and_ being more bruised than a drunkard’s liver, the demon knows how to throw a punch. Punches. _Plural_. As head is forced aside by another blow, cheek touches the cold stone ground, but instead of grunting, Apollo laughs.

Taking advantage of his long legs, the solar god sends a harmless kick to the demon’s stomach, pressing the flat of his sandal against taut muscles and pushing just enough to get rid of the hissing Seraphim. When both demon and god stand up, one doing the motion easier than the other, they round each other like caged lions, one exposing a sharp fang in a silent growl and the other, grinning manically, as if this were the best day of his life. It probably (most definitely) is.

Seraphim lunges first, one arm stretched out, while the other clearly aims at Apollo’s face.

This time, he is ready to grab onto the demon’s fist, so he does so, all while enveloping a slim waist with a strong arm. The only disadvantage to this is that Seraphim’s hit lands on the back of his head, but without the strength behind the blow, it is not as bad as it sounds.

Chest to chest, the difference in their heights is not so notable. Apollo stands taller than the demon king, but only for half a head (and maybe, do not quote him on this, he made himself shorter in order to not intimidate Seraphim … but do _not_ quote him on this).

“Got it out of your system?” He asks, nose to nose with the writhing demon. “Cooperate with me, my darling Seraphim. I brought food, wine and more water for your wounds … pretty please?”

Somewhere, thunder is falling and splitting a rock in half. This is the day a god asks for a favor out of a mortal. Never heard of before. Unthinkable, even. But Apollo does not even care.

Seraphim is panting against him, trying to claw his way out of Apollo’s embrace. Wild flyaways stick to the demon’s sweaty forehead, but he resists the need to push them off, instead keeping his steady grip on the other. Much like Hephaestus said, if Seraphim manages, somehow, to escape, Apollo will get in big trouble, mainly because nobody but Hephaestus knows what Apollo planned to do – and, well, because he should not be making friends with the prisoner. But that is just a _minor_ detail.

“Please, Seraphim … do not make me put the chains again. Not so soon.” This time, voice lacks the usual hint of aloofness; he is serious.

This particular feature seems to give pause to the demon’s attempt to escape. The fist under Apollo’s hand quivers and he soon takes notice of how weak Seraphim’s whole body is. _Right_. A few days chained down, without food or water, will do that to a man.

“Sorry … let me, just,” instead of keeping the demon with brute strength, Apollo holds him steady and nothing more, releasing fist in order to bring the indigo creature close to himself. It is just to keep the demon secure, nothing more. No. Nothing to do about such a warm, muscled body pressed against his own. No, sir. “Easy. Breathe with me. You are way too weak to have these attitude spurts, my darling Seraphim. Breathe with me again. That is it.”

Eventually, Seraphim relaxes leant against him, whether that is unwilling or because his body forces him to, it does not matter. Matter of fact is: the demon is quickly slowing down. Breathing matching Apollo’s, clawed hands digging onto sharp hipbones to have something to hold onto, and growls that soon morph into windy wheezes.

Worrying, indeed – but as soon as Seraphim is completely calm, Apollo will be able to access the damages.

“Good, good … come now, let’s sit down.”

They do.

It takes him a little while to help Seraphim onto the ground; legs shake so bad that he has to practically lower the demon down by himself. But with no complaints nor limits to his strength, Apollo manages just fine.

“Dear Styx … you really hold a punch, huh?” He comments as wine is being poured into two cups. “I think no one has landed a solid punch on me since – well, does not matter. Not many do. That is the point.”

While Apollo sits with his legs spread and both cups of wine between thighs, Seraphim has taken a cross-legged position in front of him. His silence is deafening, but he soon rolls his eyes.

“You think yourself invincible, god?”

His eyebrows raise, comically. “What? No. Well. Yes. Kind of?”

“I seem to remember,” the demon says, lips tweaking, but stopping before becoming a grin. “You getting pretty beaten up by those bastard giants.”

Mid-squeal, Apollo pushes one of the cups towards the demon, whose hands close around it before bringing it to his lips.

“Listen, we did our best. And I was not beaten up by anyone. I just – had a nasty encounter with one of them.” There is a sound coming from the demon, whose lips are still pressed against the rim of his cup. “Oi! What does that mean?! Tell me you were not a little bit beaten up too! Tell me, then!”

But between hidden chortles and offended words, both of them end up chuckling. Ah, nothing like bruised egos to bond.

After pouring the wine and dividing the meats, cheeses and breads in two portions (one of which is bigger, because Apollo absolutely refuses to eat more than Seraphim), they are both munching on the food in relaxed silence.

Little comments are made here and there, sometimes about the weather, others about how good the food is. Eventually, they both start talking more fluidly. Apollo already knew Seraphim was a quiet man, so even the small sentences, questions or curiosities get absorbed by the solar god as if he were a sponge.

“… and, at the time, Ares’ horses were already big stallions. So when I got mine, little foals that they were, he was already superior to me. In every sense of the word, I guess.” Apollo continues his little tale, but he receives no interruption from the ever attentive demon. “Eh. You might not know this, but we are a lot. Zeus’ children, I mean. The man could not keep his dick to himself. He also had wives and everything, but I guess the man kept searching for new ones. All his children, myself included, are here … well, not all of them.”

“Why?”

“Some of them were born mortal. I suppose it was easy to keep them where they could be themselves.”

Seraphim arches an eyebrow, now sitting like Apollo but leaning backward, with his hands against the ground to serve as leverage. “Is that not being a negligent father? It sounds like an excuse to not take care of them.”

“Yes, well …” He searches for words that do not come. At the end, he laughs and shrugs. “Zeus is –a different kind of god, if you will. One moment you understand him. The next, you do not.”

“Do you not understand your father?”

Maybe he does not notice it, or maybe he does not want to acknowledge it, but his face falls upon receiving such a harmless question. It becomes harder to form a smile, but he does not have to try when his gaze is glued to the empty plates and cups between them.

“Sometimes. It was easier. It has been easier … but that woman, Electra, she changed him.” And then – oh. _Oh_. Apollo’s head raises instantly, in time to see Seraphim’s countenance darken with something he cannot quite put his finger on. Apprehension? Anger? Disgust? “— I am not blaming her, your mother. Or your half-brother. I just …”

“Every story has different versions. I get it.” Head is tossed back, silver hair, already pushed off Seraphim’s shoulders, kissing the ground below. Apollo does not miss the chance to observe the length of a thick neck and the crimson line that runs from behind an ear, down the demon’s neck and passing in between those muscled pectorals. “Never met them. My parents.” Apollo ignores the tantalizing body in order to focus on Seraphim’s face, or what he can see of it now. There is hesitance on gravelly voice, but he considers it a victory when the demon continues. “Properly. I doubt I would want to face them now.”

Apollo has to wonder if such questioning emotions are goaded by something in particular. Guilt, perhaps?

But, he supposes, there is nothing to do now.

Not now.

“Ah, our mood went way too sour! Come, come … can you stand up? I have a surprise for you.” The first one to go to his feet is Apollo, followed by Seraphim, with slower movements, but doing it anyway, stronger already after some food, water and rest from those nagging chains. “Thought you would like to meet them.”

Before the demon can question any further, Apollo brings two fingers to his mouth and blows; the shrill whistle echoes in within the arena, giving way to deafening silence. Afterward, he can sense Seraphim’s questioning look on his face, but sooner rather than later, three things happen. _One_ , neighs are heard. _Two_ , Euros and Boreas come running inside the coliseum in a blur of pelt and fire. _Three_ , while Boreas loses no time knocking against Apollo, Euros immediately goes to knock heads with Seraphim.

While he chuckles and hugs around Boreas’ neck, he throws a look at the other two.

Seraphim is tentatively reaching out to touch the horse’s snout. It is quite odd to watch those claws, so sharp and deadly, caress an animal so gently – but it fits. Not even once has he seen the demon king being unkind to an animal and he is quite certain this won’t be the day.

“Is that a god thing?” Seraphim questions in a mutter, already entertained with the horse; Euros, reveling in the attention, twists his head one side and another to lead those hands to several weak spots. Cheeky horse. “To have … fire horses?”

“Not at all.” He approaches Euros and Seraphim, with Boreas close on his heels. “These are mine, so they took on my … _characteristics_ , I guess.” Tentatively, he reaches out for Seraphim’s hand and when the demon allows the touch, he brings both their hands up the horse’s head, until their joined fingers get licked by those tongues of fire. They do not harm, neither do they burn, but he can feel the demon tensing beneath, as if expecting the pain. “Worry not. I’ve got you, my darling Seraphim.”

“Stop that.”

Despite knowing what the demon king means, Apollo grins. “Stop what?”

“I am not your darling _anything_ , Apollo.” It comes as a gruff. An attempted growl. Nobody believes Seraphim’s anger, not even Seraphim himself.

“Are you sure?”

Standing behind the demon, Apollo brings his other hand down on top of Seraphim’s stomach, right where ribs end to give way to taut skin. He rests his hand there, but he presses to bring the other closer, until they are back to chest. There is no reaction, not yet, so Apollo’s smiling lips brush across a pointy ear, until teeth leave a teasing, playful nibble where ear touches jaw.

“Who else is here but me, my darling Seraphim?” Hands start to get warm, but it has nothing to do with the horse’s mane. The demon cocks his head, just a little. Apollo’s nose bumps against the line of his sharp jaw.

“Are you like your father, Apollo?” A pause comes, Seraphim twists within the odd embrace Apollo has him in, trapped between his body and the horse, until he turns around and they are chest to chest once again. “Do you seek for company with others?” A clawed hand brushes against Apollo’s pelvis, then runs up by his side, until the grip reaches his hair. He could have stopped it, but he makes no attempt to halt the way Seraphim takes ahold of his hair and grips, bringing their faces closer. “Are you frivolous and volatile, Apollo? Ruled by your needs?”

No. Yes. No.

_Yesyesyesyesyes_.

The horse eventually moves from behind Seraphim, but they do not seem to need anything but themselves to keep standing where they are. Locked, trapped – completely drinking the other in.

Apollo inches closer, lips parting.

“Would it make you feel better if I said you are the first mortal I have desired so badly?” Voice fans across Seraphim’s lips, ones that crack open to let a flickering tongue lap at a bottom lip. One Apollo wants to taste so badly, it hurts.

“Will I have to blame your greed for this, too, you silly god?” The demon king’s grip on his hair tightens, bringing their heads so close, Apollo can already feel their lips brushing with each sentence, with each word. There is a grunt stuck in his throat, but he is unable to mutter a sound. “You could have told me sooner this is what you wanted, Apollo.”

“… dear Styx, I love how my name sounds on your lips.”

Seraphim chuckles cruelly, twists Apollo’s hair and lets the tip of his tongue run across the solar god’s lips. Not enough. Not enough. _Not enough_.

“I want all of you, my darling Seraphim.”

“How much is _all of me_ , Apollo?” Now, he is quite certain the demon is saying his name with an additional flair. Sounding like melted honey on a sharp tongue and like a bee, the god is falling for it completely.

“Seraphim – come on.” _Kiss me_.

But nothing ever goes his way the first try, why did he think their first kiss would be different?

The first thing he notices is Euros and Boreas shrieking as Hermes takes them by the reins and pulls them aside. Apollo maintains his hold around Seraphim’s waist in spite of the sudden surprise, but head is turned toward his brother, whose whole face is contorted into something akin to – _pity?_

“Hermes?”

“Apollo!”

“… oh, no.”

Hermes, Apollo and even Seraphim’s heads turn towards the gods (and others) who stride angrily into the coliseum. No. No. No, wait.

Leading the angry mob, Poseidon, flanked by two other gods Apollo was not planning to see at Olympus anytime soon: Hades, who smiles at the little display with a lopsided grin … and Hera, with crossed arms and standing tall, glaring at them both as if they were pests. Behind them, Apollo can see some others, but the ones that stand out like sore thumbs are Heron, who looks at them both with something – warm? And Artemis, who is pulled back by other gods, stopping her from reaching her twin.

“Apollo. Get away from the prisoner. Now.” Poseidon blares, stabbing his trident down. Stones break, horses panic – and Apollo starts shaking his head in a negative.

“What –?”

“Apollakis.” Hermes stands behind him, trying to pry him off Seraphim, who has suddenly gone cold within his arms. “Come … Apollo, _please_. Just release him. Come on.”

“No!” Apollo surges forward, attempting to grasp onto the demon – but something shoves him backward, alongside Hermes, who serves as cushion to his fall.

The last thing he sees before Hera cages Seraphim with a purpling light is the cloud of black ravens flying around him, blocking his path.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here chapter three!
> 
> I have already made calculations. This thing will probably be 8 or 9 chapters long ... so I have a looong way to go. Everything is planned already BUT (*insert eye emoji*), if some of you want to cooperate on something, answer me this :
> 
> Who would you want to see topping who? Maybe a switch? *evil laugh*
> 
> anyway. Thanks for reading!
> 
> And, again, thanks for the lovely people who left a comment in the second chaper!  
> ( RosettaStarlight, TheTurtleFromHell, amelia831, One singular whore, Berkeil, Starkillernoe, Gospelofthewicked, phan_taloon, ravenett3, Wintress )  
> Some comments really got me cackling or sobbing. I love.


	4. THREE. Protector of the man child

– **_THIRD._** Your ears are tuned to his voice. You could pick him out in a sea of thousands. His voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. His voice makes everything else sound ugly.

“No, Artemis, I do _not_ get it.” Not for the first time, Apollo rolls brilliant eyes, dismissing what his sister was going to say next with a swat of his hand. “We should be there.”

“Should _we_ , though?”

Artemis has fallen victim to the solar god’s glares already and this time is no different; sometimes she flinches, as if expecting the beam of light that never comes. Apollo would feel apologetic, but he is not in the right set of mind at the moment ... besides, Artemis should already know he would never dare raise a hand, nor a sunray against her.

Every time he hears Poseidon’s commanding yells, or Hera’s sarcastic laughs, he swears another of his precious blood vessels bursts. He really, really, _really_ wants — no, _needs_ to know what they are talking about in there.

After all those mighty gods entered the scene, with Apollo and Seraphim tangled in a rather heated embrace (or _would be_ heated, had they the time), Hera forced the demon to his knees ( _again_ , the bloody woman) and Apollo out of the coliseum. Artemis came with him out of the goodness of her heart, but Hermes and even Heron stayed inside.

He is expecting a full report from Hermes as soon as possible, though. So, maybe, his brother’s small moment of betrayal is not that bad. He is yet to decide.

It is not like he does not understand; had he kept his nose out of the whole Seraphim debacle, he would have been able to be there, in the first place. But –

“They are treating him like an animal,” he growls out, walking back and forth in front of the automatons that put themselves as a barrier, between the coliseum’s entrance and Apollo, as soon as they were commanded to. “Did you know I found him barely conscious yesterday?” When he stops, feet dig onto the ground, kicking up faint particles of dust. “That is how we, gods, are treating an unfortunate mortal. A mortal that was just in the crossfire of pathetic, ill-aimed god furious _love_. And we call ourselves better than those filthy, rotten, big giants —!”

Artemis chooses that moment to approach her twin, loving hands now cradling the anger-heated cheeks of his and bringing his head down to her level. When he looks at her, he does not find the fury he had seen on Hera’s violet gaze, but gentle understanding. Unspoken empathy. It does not cause him fury to be seen as, perhaps, a small runt with juvenile emotions … but it does make his cheeks heat up even more in what some may call embarrassment.

“My dear brother, you know I will stand beside you in battle,” she starts, running the soft pads of her thumbs across his cheekbones. “No matter what you fight for, I will be here, by your side, unyielding and unmoving.” Apollo can’t quite help the way his shoulders sag; here comes the _but_ , does it not? This is the line Artemis is not willing to cross, not even for him. He would not ask her to, either. “… why are you looking at me like this, ‘Pollo? With these big, sad bunny eyes?”

“I do not have bunny eyes –”

Artemis smiles wide, going to her tip toes to bump foreheads with him. “You do, ‘Pollo.”

“… where is your _but_? It is coming, is it not? You would stand by me, _but_ –?”

It seems to take her by surprise, his words, but instead of staring at him just as she is doing, she bursts out laughing. Not for the first time, Apollo looks at Artemis, such a fierce warrior, and thinks her the most beautiful goddess alive. Beautiful, wonderful in every way – and a pain in his behind.

Yet, before he can so much as roll his eyes, she is throwing her arms around his neck, successfully bringing him down and claiming his body in a heartfelt hug.

“My dear twin, blood of my blood … there is no _but_. I will stand by your side, even in this moment. So what if you are fighting for some mortal? Or because your dick got the best of you? I am here.”

“My dick did not get the best of me, Artemis. You know this is wrong.” But he is already basking on the embrace, melting against a solid wall. The first one he has leant against since he brought Seraphim to him. “… he is not evil, or the worst. You know that, yes? There must be a way to get him out of here. Away from all these gods that think themselves –”

“Aw, is the child having a tantrum?”

Both twins are on guard in less than a heartbeat; Apollo stands straight, one arm thrown back in order to grasp onto the hilt of his long sword while Artemis, already by his side, glares at Hera with her own fists glowing like polished amethysts. Hera, on her side, seems unbothered by Leto’s children standing up to her, plump lips curled in a close-lipped grin that sends Apollo’s blood ablaze.

“Adorable. Did I just hear you say, Apollo, that _that_ mongrel over there is not the worst?” Hera, all swaying hips and long legs, approaches, but is smart enough to stay one feet or two away from them. “He might have been toyed with … but I would not have done such a thing had I not seen his own twisted, flickering flame.”

There is venom crawling up his throat, prickling at his tongue. From an outside point of view (or maybe it is just _his_ view?), Hera is not right, she never was. All she wanted to do was take revenge on a woman whose charms had gotten to Zeus. _Again_. In doing so, she had toyed with mortals as if they were malleable tongues of fire, bending them to her will, manipulating where they burned and when. In the process, many mortals had suffered the gods’ wrath and afterward, many other gods had to face what she forced awake.

But he remains quiet, simmering, only looking back at the woman – woman whose hand is missing; the only remnant of it a faint shadow of a ghost, one she can move to her whim, but cannot use.

Apollo chooses that moment to grin, lowering the long blade of his sword onto the ground and leaning against the hilt in a rather lazy posture.

“What is the use, Hera?” Slowly, like a feline, the solar god approaches the goddess, dragging his sword along and making stone and metal make a striding sound. “All that anger … such passion.” His steps are silent, but the kiss of the sword against stone does all the screaming. “Are you certain, Hera, that _you_ want to turn faces against a mere mortal?” When Hera’s lips part, clearly to retaliate in another word vomit, Apollo _tsk tsks_ before raising his sword and resting the flat of the blade on top of a tanned shoulder; this close, she and he are the only wisers to what he says next. “Let me remind you, Hera, that he is not at fault for what transgressed here in Olympus. You want to make Seraphim face the consequences of his acts? Fine. Do it … but when your time comes, you better wear that smile too, because we are not going gentle.”

When they separate, Apollo is smiling and Hera too.

Nobody says a word, but there are clear answers written all over on their eyes.

“Apollakis!” Hermes comes running up to him, but unaware of what just happened between Hera and his brother, the winged being just grasps onto a tanned bicep and tugs. “Just – hide, hide and never – ack!”

In a second, Hera and her conniving grins are forgotten … because next thing he knows, Hermes and he are getting squeezed by a pair of muscled and scarred arms.

Both gods writhe and grunt, trying to get away. To no avail. To the misfortune of both gods: Hades has them on his grasp. His strong, warm and uncle-y grasp.

“Ah, there ya are! So tense inside of there … I’m telling ya both, whenever I come here it’s for _another_ fight.” Hades has one arm around Hermes and another around Apollo, the longer he speaks, the more unaware he seems to be about the strength he is using for the ‘embrace’. “It’s never ‘ _Hades, come up here for dinner_ ’. It’s always ‘ _Hades, come up here because we need ya to make a vote_ ’. Bloody Styx … how hard is it to get a friendly invitation for once? Hm?”

Neither of them answer. Probably because they can’t. So, of course, Hades keeps on going.

“I’m no good at dealin’ with the living, so why bother? Talk to me about souls? Now that’s my deal, y’know? But no – it’s always somethin’ about those mortals. As if I cared. Ah, but I see ya Apollo!” Apollo? Already struggling to breathe and yet, Hades squeezes some more. He will die. This is it. This is how a god dies: by strangulation. “We all saw ya back there. Atta boy! Coulda warned us, y’know? But that’s alright, I suppose we all had that phase … escapin’ and sneaking into our beloveds’ chambers to spend a sweet evenin’ soaking in all those juices and moans and –”

“No, no, no … oh, my. No.” Apollo? On the ground, panting and covering his ears. Dramatically. “I do not desire to know!”

“But Apollo! I have so many advices for you!” Hades, ever so kindly, helps him up, jerking him by the arm. “For example, the hip move. Oh, _the_ hip move is everything! And let’s not forget what a coupla fingers do for a man, Apollo. Here, let me share my wisdom!”

××××××

“Wheeeeere are you going, Apollakis?”

Were it another voice, another presence he is not so familiar with, Apollo would have, probably, pretended to be doing anything else but escaping through his window. Considering the intruder of his space is nobody but Hermes, the god pauses, looks back inside the room and then flings his legs out of the window, welcoming the cold night air with his naked skin.

“What does it look like I am doing, Hermes?”

There is a small cackle coming from behind and when he turns his head to look over his shoulder, he can see Hermes’ bright smile almost pressed against the back of his head.

“I am not that much of a daft man to believe you are going out there to water the flowers … not after Hades’ talk about the flowers and the bees.”

Apollo groans, mortified. “I never knew I did not need that talk … but I suppose he has good advices?”

“Good advi –” Hermes pauses, nose scrunched up. “Please tell me it is not the hip thing.”

“Oh, dear brother … no. The finger thing.” Obscenely, Apollo raises his hand and curls his fingers, once and again. Hermes pushes him off the window, but Apollo is already halfway down the wall, laughing. “Do not wait for me! I might not come back tonight!”

“I _so_ do not need to know!”

A few minutes later, Apollo crouches near the coliseum where the automatons guarding the front are, hidden behind darkened bushes that have seen better days. He only has a few options and only one or two of those are smart enough to work. He knows he can’t battle against all of the machines at once, not by himself, but if he destabilizes one, it will be enough.

“This is it, Apollo,” He tells himself as he ties his long hair into a pony tail, still hiding. “You can do this. You are the god of healing … medicine … archery! The sun! You can do this.”

He never does this before a battle; usually, he just goes with the flow. Grabbing his bow and arrows, hollering with the other gods and running towards the threat? Easy. Now, however? He is feeling the pressure, for some reason.

Sweat beads on his forehead already, even some cold droplets run down the back of his neck. This is so _not_ becoming of him – but he will manage. He has deactivated automatons before, Hephaestus himself told him how to, after all.

The winds blow again and in that moment, Apollo raises his bow, placing a thin golden arrow against the polished wood. Another gust of wind hollers in the silent night, Apollo’s hand remains steady, waiting for the right moment. He can’t fail, not even one hit. Should he fail, all the automatons could take notice of his presence and he is not trying to alert anybody of this.

One inhale … and when he exhales, the winds calm down.

The arrow goes flying through the night, silent but for the faint buzzing of its path. He follows its movement, nervous but hopeful. It all happens in less than five seconds, but Apollo feels it longer. When the sharpened tip of the arrow incrusts below the automaton’s rib and punctures its control system, the metallic creature chirps once, twice … and then it sags completely, readying itself for a reboot that will happen in the next couple of minutes.

Thing is: Apollo won’t wait that long.

Dropping bow and arrow on the ground, he scuttles across the stone path, trying not to alert the other automatons; when he is near the deactivated one, Apollo slides between the machine’s legs, successfully moving from the moonlit field outside to the innards of the coliseum.

No matter how much of a hurry he is in, he remains on the ground for a couple more seconds, catching his breath and brushing sweaty flyaways off his forehead. His heart keeps on pumping wildly, but it has changed its purpose. It no longer beats for a threat that never happened – but for a singular individual that breathes not too far from him now.

It is this same trail of thought that goads him to stand up and pad towards the middle of the arena. Even without so much light, he can see the chains and the lump in the middle, with his arms stretched out by his sides. It pains Apollo to see Seraphim like that again, but he pushes forward, cautiously. Ready to speak, should Seraphim lash out, believing him another being.

To the surprise of nobody, the demon king does nothing of the sort, he just remains still.

“Seraphim?” But there is no movement, not even the faint clank of the chains. This is bringing an unpleasant Déjà vu. “… oh, my darling Seraphim, what did they do to you?”

Although there is no answer, Apollo is getting all the answers he needs by sight alone.

On his knees, Seraphim is incapable of moving. There are more chains than before, aside the ones surrounding his wrists; now, metal clings to his neck and chest, making it impossible for him to stand up. Upon further inspection, Apollo also notices the leather piece shoved between the demon’s teeth and the one that covers beautiful crimson eyes. Now the gods have done it. They have really gone overboard.

“Do not move, my darling. Let me try and get these … these … off!” He attempts to remove the leather around the demon’s eyes, but whenever he tugs, there is a muffled grunt being bitten against leather. So he gives that up in order to work on the piece of material between Seraphim’s teeth.

It takes him a little while, it really does, but Apollo, giving up on normal means, ends up slicing the leather apart with a sun ray. Darkness and hiding be damned, he can’t bear to listen Seraphim’s broken noises anymore.

There is a little of blood when the demon’s mouth is set free of its contraption, but Apollo is already there, running the pads of his thumbs across tender flesh.

“Shh, it is me. It is alright. I am so sorry, Seraphim. Have I not been here … have I …”

It would have been better, perhaps.

And he knows it, too.

“You spoke up,” Seraphim croaks out, unmoving, but very much alive. “You big buffoon.”

“… hey, I was trying to help you.” Kneeling in front of the demon king, Apollo cradles Seraphim’s head, inching closer until their foreheads touch. “Someone had to stand up to her. Somehow, I will get you out of here in one piece. You just wait and see.” There comes a pregnant pause, in which Apollo (and most likely Seraphim) realizes that the demon still has a piece of stubborn leather around his eyes. “… you just wait. I will do it. I will get you out of here. You can count on me, my darling Seraphim.”

“I will surely die.” Apollo thinks Seraphim is toying with him, again – but there are no grins, nor following jests. “You gods have a funny way of justice … nobody will lose sleep over a single mortal soul. And neither should you.” It is in this moment that Apollo feels the demon retract, not only physically but emotionally. All their former moments together long gone, blown by the dust gods’ feet kick up. “Go away, Apollo.”

Remember when he said things never go his way? Well, he is tired of letting other factors decide his fate.

Gods be damned. Demons be damned. Apollo knows what he felt a few hours ago, when they were alone in here, with nobody to judge them.

Slowly, carefully, he slides his hand from Seraphim’s jaw to the pretty curve of a pointy ear. He caresses cartilage and swears to memorize every mark that runs over the indigo skin, one of these nights. He swears he will kiss and whisper sweet-nothings until the demon believes each and every one of them … but right now, what Seraphim needs is a hard slap of reality.

It comes in the shape of Apollo’s hand, fisting around a bunch of silver hair. Considering there are chains that can potentially hurt the demon’s throat, Apollo is the one that approaches again, only keeping Seraphim’s head steady. The demon is already growling, but the god does not seem to care.

“You asked me … back then,” he starts, also growling out his words. Words that fan across Seraphim’s lips. “You asked me how much of you I wanted.” Seraphim stills, freezing; is he remembering? Remembering what they were doing before getting interrupted? Remembering how it felt to be pressed up against the god? “My answer is simple, my darling Seraphim. I want all of you … and you can blame my greed, you can blame my senseless need to possess you and be possessed by you … but what I want, I get.”

He knows he is talking like a god again. A greedy, envious and bastard god … but his grip turns gentle in less than a heartbeat and next time their noses brush together, the caress is gentle.

Despite the leather covering red eyes, Apollo is quite certain Seraphim’s attention is on him, only on him and the way their lips are almost brushing. With each second that tics by, there is another beat of a couple of hearts, another drop of cold sweat running down Apollo’s back. Another second and Seraphim’s breath hitches, not with nerves, but anticipation.

That is all Apollo needs.

Apollo tilts his head, just a little, just enough so their noses don’t bump; lips come together, hesitant. These are waters that have not been tested before and they both know it – but none of them back away. They push forward. Seraphim’s lips stop too many times in-between kisses, but Apollo lets him. The tentative brush of lips starts and stops, once and again and whenever the demon presses further, there is Apollo waiting for him, ready to return anything the man gives him.

Little by little, hesitance morphs into need. Aggressive, possessive and claiming need.

The gears shift.

The kisses stop being so short and tender; they turn harsher and fast. As if they stopped kissing, the world would end. Apollo can taste the inexperience on Seraphim’s lips, his tongue and every time he thinks the demon will hesitate, he keeps going, ready to learn, ready to mimic each and every of Apollo’s movements.

At some point, Apollo swipes his tongue across the demon’s lip, requesting and demanding entrance, which Seraphim concedes; it is maddeningly bewitching to feel the sharpness of Seraphim’s fangs with his tongue, to have another tongue, lither and sharper, coil with his own and press, as if this were just another of their word battles.

Their bodies speak in volumes and they are not holding back.

Eventually, air becomes a necessity for the demon, so Apollo forces their kisses to become gentle again. Kisses that are a mere brush of lips, kisses that are meant to trap labored breathing and taste the remnants of need.

They are silent, but they do not need to say anything.

Maybe it is childish infatuation – maybe Apollo does have something about his father in him … but that night, he does not think about it.

That night, he crosses his legs and slides his body beneath Seraphim’s, letting the mortal use him like a chair. Hands run all over the demon’s cold and shivering body, trying to rub some warmth and share some of his own. Lips press against a naked shoulder, waiting for the tremors to fade, waiting for Seraphim to catch so much needed rest, even if his body is not the greatest of pillows.

Apollo knows he will have to leave by morning, but morning sounds so far away that he feels no pressure to leave the demon’s side.

“… I do blame you.” Comes the faint whisper, after a few hours of half-snuggling on the ground. At this point, Apollo’s body is all cramped up, but Seraphim still rests against him, with his warming cheek against his collarbone.

“What do you blame me for, my darling Seraphim?”

There is no answer. Apollo does not push. If Seraphim were uncomfortable, he would definitely say so.

“… she lied.”

“Who lied?” The rising sun is starting to peek at the horizon, Apollo feels the threat approaching. He needs to go back. Soon. But. His eyebrows furrow into a tight frown and hands rest on the small of Seraphim’s back. “Seraphim? Who lied? Hera? Seraphim …”

That morning, Apollo receives no more words from Seraphim.

When the sun starts to bathe the arena with light, they kiss again. Softly, this time. Apollo craves to see how those red eyes glimmer after a kiss … but he saves that need with the rest, awaiting the moment it becomes true.

He is a patient man … and he is also a man of his word: one way or another, he is getting Seraphim out of here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand I'm back!  
> My apologies for the delay ... last weeks have been insanely busy and I have been trying to write for centuries. But! It is finally here, chapter four!
> 
> ( Also celebrating the fact that Blood of Zeus is getting a second season! *woop woop* )
> 
> NOW, to the good details!
> 
> Thanks for all the people who voted about the whole "Who should top" topic!  
> The results are ... double drums please ... these!
> 
> Seraphim bottoms : 18.75%  
> Apollo bottoms : 56,25%  
> They switch : 25%
> 
> ... so I guess we already know who is biting the pillow *eye emoji* but only to satiate my needs *ahem* there will be an extra chapter after the main ones, where I will make them switch. Because. Science.
> 
> AND before I thank people for leaving a comment, let me just say ... if Hades is not represented like this in the show, I am having a meltdown. I am really having a party imagining him like that one uncle. I will SOB. I love him. But, anyway.
> 
> Thanks to these people for commenting! Y'all have no idea how much fun I have reading what you think about this piece of craziness!  
> TheTurtleFromHell, RosettaStarlight, camber, amelia831, Berkeil, BitchyLeafFuck, Wintress, ravenett3, AussieKat, Joel7th, phan_taloon, Gospelofthewicked, Alice2113, Beloved, Ikaros9, Rikko yugi, Hatsune's bakery shop, WishUponAHoshi, silly_the_otter, Stamie greda, Paleslimeduck, Coatl, Lancelucy, Obanai, DyingStarInDenial, Uzui's Ren, Rosa.
> 
> PS: ... am I the only one craving some savage Seraphim? No? Only me? *eye emoji* ah, but when that flower blooms ... it will be the prettiest <3


End file.
